


A Perfect Soldier, A Good Man

by leavinghope, verbalatte



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Character Study, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Mutual Pining, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 14:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19230973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leavinghope/pseuds/leavinghope, https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbalatte/pseuds/verbalatte
Summary: The story of Captain America is a simple one: born scrawny and poor, shaped by science to become a perfect soldier. The story of Steve Rogers is not as straightforward, because becoming a perfect soldier is not the same as becoming a good man.





	A Perfect Soldier, A Good Man

**Author's Note:**

> Author Notes: The MCU’s Steve Rogers has been one of my favorite fictional characters of the past decade. I signed up for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang in an impulsive moment. When the artwork became available, I was so glad I gave into impulse because Art Prompt #87 symbolized all of my musings about Steve’s character journey perfectly. Many thanks to Verbalatte (<https://verbalatte.tumblr.com/>)for her beautiful artwork, betaing this story, and discussions about our Steve Rogers. 
> 
> Artist Notes: This is my first Reverse Big Bang, and even from the start I knew that I wanted to create an illustration that can symbolize Steve’s journey, not only as Captain America, but also as a person. Here it is, and I am very grateful to leavinghope for writing such a beautiful fic to accompany my art. Much love to her!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/182020586@N05/48069590841/in/dateposted-public/)

Injustice made itself known to you at an early age. After the Great War ended, young women with their young children were automatically seen as what they were: grieving widows struggling to get by on their own. Small kindnesses were bestowed upon them: the opening of a door, some extra food in their basket, a donation from their congregation… small ways to thank them for their sacrifice. But as the memory of Joseph Rogers faded from the neighborhood and as the young you was always small for your age, those small kindnesses stopped for Sarah Rogers. No longer a young war widow, but an unwed mother who had made bad choices and had to live with them. Doors were open for “ladies”, and extra food went to “real families”.  The donations from the congregation still came her way, but they were smaller and less frequent. Father Ryan explained why as he and Sarah both tried to ignore the scribbles you were marking in one of the hymnals.

“Sarah,“ Father Ryan spoke gently to her. “There is no shame in an orphanage. You cannot continue on as you are.”

“I’m not giving Steve up, Father.”

“I know he is all you have left of Joseph, but you are not going to find another man to lead your household with Steve and all his problems.”

“I already have a man of the house.” Sarah held her hand out to you, and you smiled as you grabbed ahold of her. “I don’t need anyone else but him and myself.”

“Son,“ said Father Ryan, crouching before Steve. “Behave for your mother. Honor your father and your God. And all will be well.”

You nodded bravely and took those words to heart. And as you grew older and continued in poor health, people gave you similar advice. Rest. Exercise. Pray. Play. Obey. All your short life, you looked for the right combination of rules to live by, so everything would be okay, so your health would not be a burden to your mother. Yet no matter how hard you tried, your physical ailments continued to mount. Contradictions are difficult to deal with when young (when older, too, but you didn’t know that yet).  You started to feel like nothing you did would ever be good enough.

Yet Sarah walked through the world undaunted by the challenges thrown her way. With you at her side, she continued to fight for your survival. She waited in lines for food. Fought her way to the front of the line for medical assistance for you. And when an apartment she could better afford opened up in a brownstone nearby, she brought you with her to wait from the break of day to apply for the space. The landlord peered out of the window at the two of you multiple times before he finally said, “You should go home. Others more qualified than you will show up, and there is no point exhausting yourself by standing here several more hours.”

“Don’t worry about me, sir.” Sarah spoke with a polite, yet determined, smile. “I can do this all day.”

A few months later, you walked into that new apartment, bloodied and bruised from your first fight.

“I had to defend you, Ma.” You defended himself. “They called you bad names.”

Sarah shook her head as she tended to your wounds, her hands soft and gentle. “You shouldn’t get into fights, Steve. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You bore your pain proudly and gleefully said, “I told those bullies I could do this all day.”

The smile Sarah failed to hide with her admonishing words told you all you needed to know.

And after your next fight, a curly haired boy with eyes still indescribable decades after you could finally see their true color held out his hand to you. Of course, you ignored it from where bullies had pushed you to the alley’s ground. “I don’t need your help. I had them on the ropes.”

“I know,” he replied with a friendly smile, the likes of which only your mother had ever directed at you. “I’m Bucky.”

And compelled as if by a magnetic pull, you found yourself reaching for that outstretched hand.

From that day forward, Bucky was always there, by your side for every illness, frustration, fight, crush, dream… He continued by your side as times grew tough and as he grew lean and strong. He provided friendship and companionship and thought your very existence was reciprocation enough. Bucky never believed you to be weak, despite your body telling you different every day. Bucky was the first fan of your artwork, offering encouragement without condescension. And when you needed help, god how you resented how freely Bucky gave it, because you never felt you would be able to give enough in return. Because what could handsome, charming, smart, perfect James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes ever want from broken Steven Grant Rogers that you alone could give him?

One night later in your teenage years, you woke to low voices, your mother and Bucky clearly not wanting to disturb you. You had finally been sleeping, this new cough medicine giving your lungs and body a chance to rest. You crept out from your bed, holding back whimpers from the lingering pain of your illness and being bedridden for days. But you knew the conversation must be important, otherwise they would never have risked waking you. Slowly, quietly, you grew close enough for your good ear to hear.

“Your parents will be livid if they ever find out.”

“Then don’t tell them.”

“I think they should know what you did.”

“Then tell them.”

“James.”

“Tell them. I don’t care. I’d do it again.”

“But it was wrong, what you did.”

“Really? You think it was wrong?”

“James.” Sarah’s voice cracked. “Bucky…”

“Because what I think is wrong is that medicine exists to help him, but it’s too expensive. What I think is wrong is hearing the rattling in his lungs because we can’t afford to buy it for him. Because what is actually wrong is you and me sitting by his bed, praying he won’t die, when the medicine is right there.”

“But stealing…”

“Mrs. Rogers, there isn’t a goddamn thing I wouldn’t do for him.” You heard Bucky gasp, as if he’d surprised himself.

“Oh.” A sadness crept into Sarah’s voice. An understanding. “Oh, honey.”

After you’d made your presence known, after your mother and your best friend smiled and yelled at you to rest, you saw the extra amount of food on Bucky’s plate, given from Sarah’s own. A forgiveness, a gratitude, a love. And for the first time, you knew that sometimes, to be a good man, you would have to break the rules. For the first time, but not the last, your answer to “Who is your hero?” would be “Bucky Barnes.”

Every passing winter was harder on you, but even harder on your mother. Nursing you through all of your illnesses, nursing all of Brooklyn, each year Sarah took longer to bounce back. As you grew older, you offered to drop out of school and go to work, but Sarah would have none of that. _Go to school, pursue your dreams, become an artist, my beautiful boy._ Your mother could hope for nothing more than what she already had in you.

In that last year, her last year, you were sick again. Bedridden for two weeks, with fever dreams  interrupted only by the calming, quiet songs of your mother and the soothing, cool hands of Bucky on your brow, carding through your hair, holding you steady as you sipped water and cough syrup. One of those long nights, you overheard another of those conversations which had brought such closeness to the two people you loved the most in all the world.

“Let me help.”

“You already do so much.”

“You could quit your job. I could move in and give you my paycheck.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But Mrs. Rogers, Steve needs you.”

“He has me.”

“Not if it kills you to take care of others more than you take care of yourself.”

“Would you have me turn my back on those weaker than myself.”

When Bucky did not speak, Sarah continued.  “Would you have me be any less kind-hearted than you are?”

“It’s just… it would break Stevie’s heart to lose you.”

“I know you’ll love him enough for the both of us.”

In the end, doing the right thing marked her for death. In her final days, you witnessed their last conversation, a silent one - Sarah’s eyes wide with hope, Bucky’s solemn nod, his kiss to her forehead, her grateful teary smile.

You seethed deep down inside. You didn’t need anyone to take care of you. But when you saw your mother’s smile, you realized Bucky had been more than a gift to you, but to Sarah, too.

When you last saw your mother, amongst her words of praise and love, Sarah said to you, “Don’t be too proud to let Bucky help you.”

“Ma, I won’t need his help. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“It’s okay to need him. He’s a good friend, a good man.”

“Best person I know, after you.”

“He loves you.”

Your heart flopped in an unexpected way. Unable to find words, you nodded.

“It won’t be easy…”

“Ma…”

“But it’ll be worth it. He’s worth it.”

But you always worried you weren’t worthy of him.

Bucky learned how to fight, good enough to earn money and supplement his income from whatever job he could manage to find. He was a YMCA champion, that’s how good he was. You would go to his matches to watch his skill, draw his form, discern his technique. Bucky was always a quick study, and a few sidelong glances were enough for him to assess his opponents and learn their weaknesses. He was successful because he knew the rules and never deviated from them. No disqualifications, not one. He knew how to use his body to leverage the rules to his advantage.

And then Bucky would come home to you and teach you how to break all of those rules. Because Bucky always said you were strong and capable and good, and it was the world that wasn’t fair, so you would have to compromise. Harden your hand by holding a pen, shield yourself with a trash can lid. You might have to fight dirty, but that didn’t mean you weren’t good.  What Bucky knew was the story of your life before you lived it. He knew for you to be your true self, you would need to determine you own rules.

Bucky knew all of that about you, long before you ever knew it about yourself.

Because then what you knew was your father had died a soldier, with so many others in a far off war, doing the right thing for his country. Your mother had struggled as a young widow to keep you safe, warm, fed, and as healthy as possible. She led a rough life, but she helped you, helped a lot of people through her vocation, which eventually took her life. Like your father, Sarah Rogers died doing the right thing. All you wanted to do was follow in their footsteps, because the news from Europe was horrible and frightening, and it was coming for Bucky. Who would go, of course, who would do the right thing. But the war wasn’t coming for you and so you fought for it, ran after it, altered yourself forever to have the chance to follow your father, your mother, your best friend. Because maybe, just maybe, becoming a soldier would finally allow you to become your own man. A perfect soldier, a good man.

*******

The world had more air than you had ever known. The world was brighter, louder, more colorful than you had ever imagined. And the color shining most clearly was full painted red lips. Agent Margaret Elizabeth Carter. Peggy.  Beautiful, smart, talented, independent Peggy. She was like nobody you had ever known, and she seemed to see you. She joined a select few, your mother and Bucky, who saw beyond your frailty to your strength, your stubbornness to your resilience. However, Peggy left your life as quickly as she entered, with Phillips whisking her away for a tour overseas while you embarked upon your tour as an American icon.

Suddenly everyone wanted a piece of you.  Politicians, businessmen, Hollywood, women… At first the attention was overwhelming. And unwelcome. Didn’t they understand this was a waste of your novel strengths? Your memory, your mind, your muscle? You thought you’d joined the US Army, not the USO. But there came a point at every stop when you found a purpose to it, a small thing you could do to make a difference. Keeping unwanted advances from the chorus girls, consoling grieving widows, outfitting wounded soldiers with prosthetic limbs. The money was flowing in, and you did what you could to make sure it was directed to the right places. In your movies, you argued for an integrated cast, knowing what it would mean to everyone with loved ones who were serving. And those movies brought hope and you were proud of them. You were proud of yourself. You were making a difference for once in your life. And so what if you weren’t using all of your newfound gifts? In the end, did you really need to be a weapon if you could help the war effort on such a large scale without firing a shot? It took several months, but you finally arrived at a place where you were proud of what you were accomplishing, proud of yourself.

Until the tour brought you to the front. A dream come true. A nightmare unfolding. Because these men may not have punched Hitler over two hundred times, but the blood on their uniforms wasn’t fake. The haunted look in their eyes wasn’t performed, their anger wasn’t scripted, and their screams were so very real.  And that’s when Peggy found you again, kicking you in your ass when you would have retreated into yourself. Then she unintentionally gave you all the motivation you needed, the only motivation you’d ever needed, to bring out the best in yourself.

Truth be told, you were terrified.

You barely knew how to hold a gun, how to strap on a parachute. But you knew you’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t try to find Bucky. And surprisingly, Peggy believed in you. She and that madman Howard Stark helped you, flew you to where you needed to be, risking their lives for you. And all because you hoped, you prayed, that Bucky was still alive. And if not, you’d at least know you tried, you’d have tried, because you knew he’d do no less for you. And if you saved some of his fellow soldiers in the attempt, then so much the better. And if you didn’t, if you died, you would at least not have to live in a world without Bucky.

And when Bucky screamed “Not without you!”, you learned a fundamental truth of your life. There was no explosion, no fire, no chasm, no fear of falling, no war… there was nothing that could prevent you from reaching Bucky’s side.

You returned to camp a hero. Those who reviled you just a few days ago revered you now. The acceptance in Phillips’ eyes, the admiration in Peggy’s, the pride in Bucky’s… those fueled you. Increased your desire to do more and assured you your instincts were good and, damn the rules, you were right.

So when you wanted Peggy to be part of yours and Phillips’ team, you told them _damn the rules_ and knew you were right.

When you wanted Jones and Morita on your team, you told them _damn the rules_ and knew you were right.

When they told you Bucky deserved to be honorably discharged instead of following you, you told them _damn the rules_ and knew you were wrong. Knew you were selfish. Knew you needed him by your side. Knew he wished you weren’t there.

Knew Bucky would never leave you.

Sometimes when you watched Bucky clean his gun, you could still hear Bucky saying _Mrs. Rogers, there isn’t a goddamn thing I wouldn’t do for him_.  You wished you didn’t remember those words, because you knew deep down in your bones that every shot, every kill eating away at Bucky’s soul was for you. He stayed by your side in that godforsaken place, and you couldn’t even bring yourself to be sorry, because to have Bucky with you was better than being without him even in the hell of war. Perhaps especially there. And you hated yourself a little because you never let yourself look too deeply into why Bucky was like air to your lungs. He made you breathe long before the serum, and he only seemed to be more necessary to you now. Even though Bucky thought you didn’t need him anymore. Bucky was wrong, and you didn’t know how to tell him, or if he’d believe you if he did.

You endeavored to live up to Erskine’s description: _Not a perfect soldier, but a good man._ At first, you had looked at your new body and your good health and embraced it as the reflection of what your mother and Bucky had always said you were on the inside. And now everyone could see it. The transformation healed the wounds inflicted by every illness and every bully. Your ego was somewhat healed, too. The pain of every rejection was soothed by the by the attention paid to you.  And having embraced Erskine’s words, you thought you deserved it. As Bucky would tease you, your head got as big as the rest of your body. You laughed, knowing it to be true. But when people who outranked you followed your lead and the grunts in the trenches looked up to you, well, you knew you merited it. You knew you were right and righteous, you knew you were good, you knew you deserved it.

But then one day on a speeding train, your hand fell short of holding onto the most important person in your life. Suddenly, you were full of anger and despair and rage and hate, and damned if it would have felt wrong any other way. And what did that say about you?

You didn’t stay alive long enough to find out.

*******

You would eventually wonder if SHIELD considered how cruel it was to wake you with the sounds of a baseball game you had attended with your best friend. Your dead best friend, who you had lost just days before in your frame of time. This lapse in judgment made it difficult for you to trust Nick Fury and SHIELD, but you did not feel you had any other choice given your unique situation. After all, how many men survived being frozen for seventy years to awaken in a world that had moved leaps and bounds beyond them?

To acclimate to this new, shiny, and lonely world, you forced yourself out onto the subway, into cafes and shops, all with a new notebook in the pocket of your leather jacket. Wandering around New York City made you feel both better and worse. Better, because enough was the same to ground you in its familiarity. Worse, because enough was different to make you turn to point out the differences to Bucky. You could not remember the last time you’d walked the streets of your old neighborhood without Bucky at your side.

You finally found yourself at your mother’s gravesite.  Sarah Rogers, beloved wife and mother. There was so much you wanted to tell her.

“Ma,” you said. “I made it to the future. It’s stranger than we ever could have imagined. More complicated, but easier at the same time. Lots of stuff in abundance that we used to struggle for.  I wish you could see it.”

You tidied the weeds encroaching upon her grave. “I miss you. I’m alone here. I think I’ll always feel alone here. Because I messed up, Ma. All those times he saved me, and the one time…”

You bared your soul to your mother as you could to no-one else and continued until you ran out of words. As you headed out of the cemetery, you passed a headstone with familiar names: George and Winifred Barnes. You fell to your knees involuntarily, dropped by an overwhelming sense of sadness and guilt. They’d both outlived their son. You reached out to touch their names. “I have no right to ask you for your forgiveness for not saving him. I tried, but I wasn’t good enough. I’m so sorry.”

You took a few more steps, noticed the words _James Buchanan Barnes_ carved in marble above an empty grave, and broke into a run until you reached your sterile apartment where you could break down in peace.

Everyone else was gone, but Peggy was alive. You were grateful and terrified. Peggy had lived a whole life, full of accomplishment and happiness, without you. You were so glad for her. Even if you’d never had a chance to know what the two of you could have been to each other, you had loved her. But you were terrified to see how much she had changed. Here you were, still in your twenties, while she was ninety years old. She would recognize you, but would you recognize her? How much would she have changed over the last seventy years, while you were dead in the ice? You hesitated to make contact with her, afraid your emotional connection would have broken under the strain of space and time. But this was the one thing in the future you should not have worried about, because she was still Peggy Carter. She smiled at you and sassed you and kept you in line and loved you, even on her bad days. And you were so grateful, so very grateful, because there was one person in this strange world who knew you.

But there were others you would learn to know.

You could never look at Bruce Banner without a nagging sense of guilt, which made no sense because you had been under the ice for decades by the time of what happened to Bruce. But sometimes you couldn’t shake the shame of having been the one unblemished success of the super soldier program. You knew Bruce was a good, decent, gentle man, so if the serum simply amplified the inside and it did that to Bruce, maybe your dose was the one that failed, the experiment that went wrong.

That sense of wrongness followed you around. Wrong words, wrong clothes, wrong food, just wrong. You hadn’t felt so wrong in a very long time. Because before the gathering of the Avengers and the camaraderie of the Commandos, before the body of a Greek god, before all of that, you had Bucky, and you itched to have Bucky walk through this new century at your side.

Pausing briefly in the midst of the first battle of this new century, it occurred to you that Bucky would have loved it. Not the destruction and the casualties, but the Gods, aliens, spaceships… the future.  Not for the first time, and not for the last, you thought it should have been Bucky who survived to see all this. That Bucky wouldn’t spend so much time feeling sorry for himself and missing the past when a whole wide future was in front of him. You had spent so much time trying to be what everyone thought you were that you had forgotten what you had always wanted to be: the man Bucky Barnes believed you already were.

“I’m so sorry, Buck.”

You picked up your shield and your resolve. Once this battle was over, you would hop on your motorcycle and travel the States, the road trip you and Bucky had dreamed of in your pre-war days. You would take your sketchbook as your companion and sketch Bucky into all the locations he had dreamed of seeing. It was the first plan Future You had made that was not a suggestion or order given to you by someone else. It felt good. You felt lighter, almost bubbly, with the decision.

“Are you ready, Captain?”

You turned to Thor, a man who was stronger than even you. Man? Alien? God? Friendly, outgoing, magnanimous. Worthy comrade in arms. You liked him already. Smiling wearily at him, you said, “I can do this all day.”

Thor clapped your shoulder and laughed. “Of that, I have no doubt, Captain.”

As soon as the danger was over, you kept that promise to yourself. You hopped on your bike and took that trip. You drew Bucky into all of the locations he’d dreamed of visiting with you - New Orleans, San Francisco, the Grand Canyon… You talked to him about the differences here in the future.

Infrastructure was better.

Food was plentiful.

Disease was controllable.

Love was love.

As the newness wore off, the flaws started to show.

Infrastructure was better, but more for the wealthy than the poor.

Food was plentiful, but too many people went hungry.

Disease was controllable, but healthcare was a privilege.

Love was love, but bigotry still thrived.

Once the news spread of your miraculous return from the dead, more and more people recognized you. Not much had changed.

You were still a symbol.

You could still be a hero.

You returned from your trip with a renewed sense of purpose. You moved to Washington DC, formally joining SHIELD, the initiative Peggy and Howard had started. You fell into the comfortable patterns of being a soldier — training, missions, training, missions. You kept up your end of the bargain made with Erskine so long ago, to use your new body as a tool to help your country and to help others.

Sam Wilson asked you what made you happy. As you failed to come up with an answer, you realized Sam was the first person in your new life that had asked that question of you. And to be honest, that included you yourself, because at some point, probably while clinging to the side of a train, you had decided you could never be happy again. Bucky and his ma would have been so disappointed in you. In time, you would accumulate a list of happy-making things, and Sam’s name would be there. Sam was the first person in this new century who made the effort to know you. It wasn’t his fault you only knew how to be Cap.

Because you didn’t know Steve Rogers. You had no idea who you were supposed to be in this shiny new world. So you became who everyone wanted you to be: Captain America. Because that was who had survived the test of time, the character from the comics and the hero from the black-and-white film reels. God, country, and apple pie, that was who you were supposed to represent. You slipped into the persona with ease, your eidetic memory allowing you to parrot the scripted lines from the war years. You moved on as much as you can for a man who was marching in place.

And then one day everything changed. SHIELD fell. And your shield fell.  Your rebuilt world crumbled all around you. All because there was a man on a bridge whose mask fell.

You had never felt more alive.

*******

The file was a nightmare.

As you read of his resistance to torture, you were both proud of him and ashamed of yourself, because you knew you would have broken long before him.

As you read of the experiments performed upon his repeatedly broken body, you cried the tears he could not without punishment and desperately wished it had been you instead.

As you read of all the times he’d been used as a weapon, you vomited your remorse at all the times you’d gladly been the pointed gun yourself, thinking you were doing the right thing but knowing now more than ever how agendas can twist that perception.

As you read of the repeated cycle of thawing the body and wiping the mind and freezing the body again, you believed in miracles because Bucky was still alive.

Bucky was out there now, alone. He had pulled you from the river. He knew you, he did, and you vowed to bring him home.

And Sam understood, Sam who had watched Riley fall, whose hand probably reached out to Riley in dreams the way you reached out for Bucky’s every night. With a gentle touch on your arm and an even softer tone in his voice, Sam said, “Look, I’m with you in this search, I am, but I want you to consider this. Maybe it isn’t that Barnes doesn’t want you to find him, but that he wants a chance to find himself first?”

And how that felt like a blow from Mjolnir.

And how you chafed at being told what to do.

But your team needed you. Your team was growing. Wanda, Vision, Falcon, that kid from Queens on occasion. They needed you. They needed Captain America to lead them.

Natasha Romanov stood by your side, your second in command.

You used to judge Natasha for her covers and her lies. But then again, you were lifted from the ice straight out of the war that would eventually birth her, so maybe she was right to be as suspicious of you as anyone else. Still, it took some time for you to trust her. Then she broke that trust and worked to rebuild it to be stronger than ever. As close as you became to her, you never quite felt you completely knew her.

Only fair, all things considered.

But she’d become part of Clint’s family, much beloved to him, an aunt to his children, and a best friend to his wife, Laura. She was a daughter to Nick and an older sister to Wanda, and damned if that didn’t make Natasha braver and stronger than you ever were. Because she was able to pick up the strands of her brutal life and forge a family from strangers.

And if she could do it, so could you.

And so you did.

You changed your mind from its rigid rules of what makes a family, one formed by bonds of blood alone. It had always been you and your ma, your definition of a family. Took time, seven decades of being dead, to realize that Bucky and the Barneses and the Howling Commandos had counted, too. But then you lost them all and awoke from the ice as an orphan. Without an anchor, without a home, without a family. And your strength didn’t extend to starting over, so you had shielded yourself from making connections. Colleagues were easier than friends or lovers. No investment equalled nothing to lose. Not like the death of your mother, the missed chance with Peggy, the deep all-encompassing _everything_ that was Bucky.  If you only cared abstractly, then pain was abstract, too.

But then Sam whittled away at the ice around your heart, and Nat and Wanda melted it thoroughly.  And as you looked at your newly assembled team in upstate New York one day, you came to the following realization.

Home isn’t a physical place, and a familial bond isn’t written in blood.

Home is wherever you choose to be with the people you want as a part of your life.

Tony and Thor and Bruce and Pepper and Clint and Fury and Maria… slowly you allowed them in, to start to see the real you, Steve Rogers and not Captain America. And letting them in helped you find yourself, your place, your home.

And so maybe there was a room, a large room, the largest room, in your new home that felt empty without Bucky. But instead of its emptiness nagging you like a sore tooth, you decided to see that room as ready and waiting for whenever Bucky was ready to return to your side, to help build that home together.

*******

Howard Stark had been larger than life, even once you got to know him as a man, not a celebrity, during the war. His son, Tony, was much the same.  Charming, clever, brash, dashing. Too rich for you to comprehend, too impulsive for his own good. Tony, like you, was desperately aware his position were gained from the blood of others. Like you, he operated with a chip on his shoulder.  Like you, he was reckless with his body and protective of his heart. Like you, he acted like he had something to prove.

Was it any surprise you clashed as frequently as you laughed together?

Pepper Potts grounded Tony. He loved her, desperately, and it was easy to see why. She supported him, teased him, defended him, spoke truth to him, and always had his back. All the same things Bucky did for you. And didn’t that make your stomach flip and your heart flutter the way it did for the first time when you were sixteen years old.

Which made it all the more difficult to believe what you were hearing. Tony wanted to give up the autonomy of the Avengers to people who had agendas. People who would prevent you from going where they wanted conflict to fester. People who would allow innocents to die while debating the optics of interference. You sympathized with Tony, his guilt, his pain. You felt them both in generous amounts, held the emotions close in an endeavor to learn from them. But Tony was used to other people making choices on how to use Stark Industries’ weapons. Tony could put away the suit. But you couldn’t. You were the weapon. There is a piece of paper stating you are the property of the US government, to do with as they wish. And maybe you felt that was okay in the 40s, with clear goals and enemies. Here in this new century, you needed to make your own decisions, to make your own rules. Not SHIELD, not the US government, not even Tony Stark. You didn’t trust easily in governments anymore, and that was horrible realization.

But then the phone rang.

Peggy was dead.

Bucky was alive and needed you, and the only rules you would ever live by were the ones he taught you.

Were you worth the sacrifice so many made? Sam, Natasha, and Wanda on the run. Scott, who helped for no other reason than Captain America asked him to, now under house arrest.

As you dropped Clint off at his farm, knowing authorities weren’t far behind, he said, “Look, Cap. All it took for you to let me back on the team after the bullshit with Loki was one look from Nat. I’ll never forget that.”

You nodded, knowing any protest would be dismissed out of hand.

“I know what it’s like to not be in control of one’s mind or actions. Your boy went through hell, for decades, and he still managed to climb his way out. It was my privilege to be called in on that op, Steve, as long as he’s safe.”

What did you ever do to deserve such loyalty?

Without the Avengers, without your shield, without a home, you were a nomad. But what else?

Because if you weren’t Captain America, who were you?

_For as long as I can remember I just wanted to do what was right. I guess I'm not quite sure what that is anymore._

Somehow your compass was saved with you from the _Valkyrie_. It was the first bit of luck you’d had this century. Having Peggy in your life again was the second. She’d been the first person outside of Ma and Bucky who’d seen and believed in your potential. She’d provided hope when you had little and a steadying hand when you started to stray. She’d been more than a friend and colleague, she’d been a mentor.  And you loved her, you did, with the sweetness of a first kiss and the melancholy of opportunities lost. When you felt particularly alone, you had found your way to her bedside. When you felt particularly lost, you’d take out that compass, your moral compass, and allow her faith in you to guide your way. Because Peggy had lived in a world with rules designed to work against her for her entire life. She persisted where others wanted her to give up, she succeeded when others actively pushed for her to fail. And she died a venerated leader and a beloved woman, by no one more than you.

But sometimes, in your darkest moments, you’d pull out that compass and wonder if she knew.

If Sharon knew.

If Natasha knew.

If Nick knew.

Because SHIELD knew and didn’t tell you.

And maybe that was wise, because you knew you’d do anything, break every rule, burn down the world, to find Bucky again and try somehow to get over the betrayal by those around you who could have never understood what he meant to you.

How could they? When even you couldn’t put it into words. And as you chased him around the world, into a flat in Bucharest, a vise in Berlin, a hell in Siberia, you were beginning to understand Bucky’s only act of betrayal was not telling you he loved you too much.

Bucky told you on the way to Wakanda, like a secret torn deep from his heart. “Before I knew who I was, I knew you. That’s who you are to me, Steve. You run deeper in me than my own damned godforsaken self.”

So you tore the world apart to take down Hydra. After so many years of Bucky finishing your fights for you, it was time you finished the last of his. He knew what you were doing for him. And he knew he couldn’t stop you, just like you could never stop him when you wanted most to not need him. Thus, with every text, call, and chat, you confessed your sins, easing your burdens and hoping you were easing his.

When Shuri finally convinced Bucky he was free of Hydra’s hold for good, he invited you to visit him in Wakanda. You walked off the Quinjet and were escorted to Bucky’s home by Shuri and T’Challa, who greeted Bucky as a brother. He was dressed in soft fabrics, draped gently over his body, healthy and content. Saying goodbye to his other guests, Bucky shyly invited you into his abode and once alone, he opened his arms. You stepped into them and didn’t let go for hours. During your few stolen visits to Wakanda, you found satisfaction in farm work, contentment in your art, and wholeness in your heart. In Wakanda, you found peace.

With Bucky, you finally found yourself.

Your faith had always been in people. Your mother, Bucky, Erskine, Peggy, Natasha, Sam… As organizations fell, your team, your _family_ grew and grew stronger. There was never a time you did not miss your mother and your past, but while you had gotten there in a very unusual way, your present was very much a creation of your own design. And now you stood on a hill in Wakanda, awaiting the fight of your life, and you wouldn’t be anywhere else.

You looked at all those assembled on this day.  You saw colleagues, friends, allies. You saw people who respected you and what you stand for, not as Captain America, the perfect soldier, but as Steve Rogers.  If the worth of a man was measured by the company he keeps, then you were worthy indeed. Your teammates, your allies, chose to fight alongside you in this, possibly your final battle.

And at your side was Bucky, always Bucky. Friends since childhood, inseparable on the playground and the battlefield, in life, in heart and soul, past, present and any possible future, at the heart of it all.  He’d been tortured and abused, hunted and imprisoned. He’d been made to do such horrible things. And yet he’d fought his way back, the only fight he’d really ever wanted a chance in, to be in the world with you, and to make amends for all the things he should never have to apologize for to begin with. Bucky didn’t want to fight, he never had, but he understood duty and loyalty and love more than most.  He was the best man you’d ever known.

You reached down to clasp Bucky’s hand and felt his comforting squeeze in return. You turned your head to look at him, and he gave you a reassuring smile. And in his eyes was everything your felt for him, returned — the comfort of friendship, the bond of brothers, the loyalty of brothers-in-arms, and something deeper, the one feeling you’d been afraid to name since you were sixteen years old. Now you returned his smile with one you hoped showed him everything. _Everything._ Because here at the end of the world was Bucky, and the end of the line would never come for the two of you.

And as the heavens rained down and the battle began, you knew you were fighting not just as the perfect soldier, but as a good man.


End file.
